


the second hand unwinds

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Background Margo/Josh, Declarations Of Love, Epistolary, Happy Ending, Healing, I wrote this for myself but you can read it if you want, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 00:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20591297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: After the Monster, Quentin writes to Eliot. Eliot writes back.





	the second hand unwinds

**Author's Note:**

> An age and a half ago hetrez on tumblr suggested Q and El as interdimensional pen pals. That spawned this.
> 
> General warning for some discussion of mental health, depression, suicide. This reads both Q's actions in 4.13 and Eliot's actions at the end of s1 as suicidal, so if that's not something you're looking for now's a good time to turn back. 
> 
> And it ends happily. I promise. Get fucked SJH.
> 
> Title from [Time After Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VdQY7BusJNU).

Q,

We’re returning to Fillory today. Lipson’s letting me out so there’s no reason to put it off any longer. Sorry I won’t be there when you wake up.

Please wake up.

Your friend,  
Eliot

* * *

May 1, 2019

Dear Eliot,

Julia says you’ve been gone a few days. Sorry I couldn’t say bye. Hope things are okay in Fillory.

I don’t know if you’ll get this. Magic is weird again. Still. I guess you know that already.

<strike> I wish I could have </strike>

<strike> I’m sorry I didn’t </strike>

I’m glad you’re ok.

Q

* * *

???

Q,

We nearly shot the thing out of the sky, but rest assured: messaged received. Consider this a return test, assuming it arrives, what with magic being intent on screwing us over. It’s almost impressive how the universe continues to fuck us at every possible turn.

Welcome back to the land of the living. It’s a bitch, but we’re glad you’re okay. Margo keeps going on about how she knew you’d be fine, but I’m pretty sure she’s faking it. Do not tell her I said that. I like my balls where they are.

I’m writing to you in the light of a campfire, which is not nearly as romantic or easy as you’d think it is. Why, I hear you asking, are we not safely ensconced in our beautiful castle, bitching about Tick’s latest fuckup, while Margo makes eyes at Josh? (Sidebar: Josh? Really? I mean, I’m out of commission for a few months and Josh? What’s next, Todd’s part of the team?) 

Well, because Fillory is fucked, of course.

I’m sure you’re surprised. I’ll pause here for you to be surprised.

It’s truly a magnificent clusterfuck and honestly every time someone brings us news it gets worse. As best we can tell, whatever that Librarian did with the secret magic ocean under the castle royally (pun intended) screwed stuff up here and we’ve missed three hundred years, give or take. There’s a Dark King on the throne (yes he really calls himself that), the people are starving, Margo’s still maybe technically banished, we have no idea what happened to Fen and Josh, and apparently the Questing Creatures have vanished from Fillory so there goes the possibility of a get out of jail free card. And we thought killing God was as bad as it would get. (Did we? Well, I did anyhow. Ah, the naïveté.)

Which is my way of saying I don’t know when we’ll be back. I wish I did, but people here need help in a big way, and Bambi and I are the only ones around who can do anything about it. Obviously we have no plan and fewer resources––even the fairies aren’t answering our calls––but hopeless causes are our specialty. <strike>And I think I’ve probably done enough damage on Earth already.</strike>

You’ve always wanted a penpal, right? You’re so lucky I’m here to fill in.

Your friend,  
Eliot

* * *

May 16, 2019

Dear Eliot,

I keep trying to write you and throwing everything out. The whole bed is covered in crumpled up pieces of paper. I feel like a cliché.

I’m glad you’re okay. And that you’re getting these. This. The penpal thing is sort of neat.

Are you okay? Sorry, that's a stupid question. I guess not. Do you need help? Is there anything we can do? I feel like I should be there. I know I can’t be right now, not while I'm still <strike>sick</strike> recovering, but it's hard. You know? It's really hard. I feel useless.

Things are slow here. I guess that doesn’t help. I’m still at Brakebills. Sometimes they let me out of the medical wing to sit outside. Fresh air, all that. It’s weird to see the students. It’s the end of term and it feels like a college campus at finals time. All the students here look so young. Can I say that? That they look young? They’re our age, aren’t they? It’s hard to tell with all the time spent hopping back and forth. You’d be graduating, I guess, if you were here. Wonder what we would be doing, in that other boring life. Drinking at the cottage, probably. You’d be telling us some ridiculous story about finals. Would you have done a thesis? I can’t imagine it. What a world that would be. And then you’d be gone, and we’d be here on our own. <strike>I don’t know if that other, normal Quentin would like that, being at Brakebills without you. I know I don’t like it now.</strike>

I think about you all the time. About what you guys are doing, I mean. About ways I should be helping. I don’t know. I worry if you’re alright. I hope you’re alright. Or whatever alright is, for us. Not dead would be good. <strike>I mean, we wouldn’t even know, would we? You’d just stop writing and we wouldn’t know if it was the magic or Fillory or if something happened and that would be that and I’d be left with that big question and I only just got you back and––</strike>

<strike>Fuck.</strike>

Stay safe.

Q

* * *

21st of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dearest Q,

Good news: We’re not dead.

Sorry it’s taken so long to write again. Before I forget, Margo says to send her love so please, consider it sent. I think she wanted to write something too, but she’s busy negotiating with the griffins and honestly I’m not sure if we’ll ever see her again.

That’s a joke. Sort of.

I can’t lie. I mean, I could, but I won’t. <strike>I promised I wouldn’t</strike> <strike>I said I’d be braver, so</strike> <strike>I’ve done it way too often and it’s hurt you and I don’t oh for fuck’s sake</strike> Things are pretty grim. Like, plague and famine and systemic injustice grim. The good news is, we’re raising a peasant army to rebel against this so-called Dark King. The bad news is… well, I don’t know if you’ve ever raised a peasant army but it’s definitely more work than they show in the movies and you can’t just play a handy montage and skip the whole thing. There’s a lot of boring technical stuff –– feeding people here remains an absolute nightmare, even with magic back on –– and there are some things I honestly can’t write down, because it turns out that waging a guerilla war on the usurper of your own kingdom means you have to be pretty hush hush with the details. So, long story short: things are happening, and they suck. 

But we’re all fine. Like I said, Margo’s talking with the griffins, and we met a giant –– an honest to God (Ember? Umber? whatever) giant –– the other day. They won’t help us, and the one we met almost ate my horse, but still. I think you would have enjoyed it, Fillory at its Fillory-est. Not the weird politics and sex-crazed talking animals, just the kind of marvels you can’t find anywhere else in the world multiverse. (I hear there’s an enormous velvet horse too. Margo says it’s mentioned in the books but I definitely don’t remember that part.) Maybe we can go see them when you’re back.

Which will be later, after you’re better. I know saying it doesn’t necessarily change how you feel, but it’s okay, Q. Really. We miss you, of course, but the best place you can be is where you are, taking care of yourself. Getting better. It was <strike>awful</strike> <strike>terrifying</strike> <strike>my personal living nightmare</strike> not particularly pleasant to see you <strike>comatose</strike> <strike>half dead</strike> <strike>fucked up like that</strike> in the hospital. We’re all glad you’re okay. We’ll be okay too. Focus all that care and worry on yourself for a little bit. Well, most of it. You can worry for us a little. It’ll be good for morale.

Oh, Margo’s back from the griffins and looking murderous –– though, that’s just her face these days. I’m afraid this is where I must leave you. Pray that this expression heralds some good news. 

Your friend,  
Eliot

P.S. Me? Do a thesis? Perish the thought. Well, Fillory was supposed to be my thesis, but we all know how that’s gone. Next time I get back to Earth I should ask Fogg for my diploma anyway. I mean, the country is still standing so I think that counts as a pass, don’t you?

* * *

May 26, 2019

Dear Eliot,

If there’s anyone who can do this, it’s you. I mean, you guys kept Fillory together when the Wellspring was tapped out and through the fairies. You’ll do this too. You always figure out a way.

I still wish I could help. Even just do research, maybe. If I’m stuck here I could be useful, at least. Do something besides pretend to sleep every time Julia comes to see me.

I’m probably being a bad friend. It’s not her fault. She’s just worried. But I’m just tired of talking about it. Not like talking is going to change anything that already happened. <strike>And I just feel</strike>

That’s not what I wanted to write you about. I wanted to write about my mom. She came to see me today.

It was weird. I mean, she’s come once or twice before when I was in the hospital as a kid, but really it was always Dad. <strike>Which was always</strike> <strike>I mean I don’t blame her but</strike> I guess it can’t be him now, so it would be her. Right? I don’t know. It was weird.

We haven’t really talked since my dad died. We didn’t really talk before that either, but now there’s just this big thing sitting in between us, and that thing is my dead father. It’s hard. I didn’t really realize how much stuff was going on around me when I was with the monster. It was like I couldn’t see, really. Like I had on these glasses or blinders or something, and the only thing I could focus on was the monster and you. Everything else was extra. Television static. But now there’s no monster, and you’re in Fillory, and the glasses are off, and there’s so much stuff, everywhere. I don’t know how to get through any of it.

I missed his funeral. I was with the monster and I couldn’t make it. Or couldn’t risk it. Or it was one of those things that didn’t matter, then. My dad’s funeral, not important. I mean, I had responsibilities, but it wasn’t… I didn’t feel it, not really. I couldn’t. Everything was falling apart, you and Dad and Jules and the monster and I couldn’t fix any of it. So I just. Picked something. And Dad fell through the cracks.

Julia feels bad. Guilty, I think. She won’t say it, but I think she thinks she should have done something when she was all goddessed up. Maybe she should have. I don’t know. Magic was gone, and he was in remission. There’s no way to even know if it would have worked. Maybe it would have been worse if she’d tried and he still died. Or maybe she could have fixed it. I don’t know. But she wants to talk about it, and I don’t. No point now.

Sometimes it hurts so much I want to throw up. Mostly I’m just tired.

I know you have your own stuff to deal with. You probably don’t want to hear about any of this. Sorry. It’s just easier to write it down than talk about it, I guess, and everyone’s busy anyways, when they’re not hovering over me, and I’m just–– It’s just me and my mom and all this stuff and I just can’t breathe. It feels like someone’s sitting on my chest every time I try. And there’s just not enough left to hold it up.

Maybe you should have left me at Blackspire. Maybe it would have been better that way.

Quentin

* * *

33rd of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Q ––

You’re fucking kidding yourself if you think ANY of us were going to leave you in that hellhole.

I’m not saying the decision we made –– the decision I made –– was the best. And I’m sorry, Q, I really am, for everything that came out of it. I’m sorry for the monster, and for your dad, and for putting you in any position where you thought facing that fucking Librarian was the way to end things. Maybe one day you’ll be able to forgive me for that. <strike>Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive myself.</strike>

But we couldn’t leave you there. I couldn’t. I’m not sorry for that and I’m willing to bet Margo isn’t either. We’re alive, Quentin. We’re alive. We made it, and we’re free, and the monsters are gone. Isn’t that worth it? Isn’t it worth having a chance to do something more? To keep going? I know it was inelegant and awful and I wish it wasn’t and I’m sorry you had to face it and I’m sorrier you had to face it alone but when has a solution of ours ever been foolproof? Maybe every time we fix something we fuck something else up but then we fix that too. Together. Like we always have.

I’m not willing to lose you. Whatever it takes for that, as long as you’re here, that’s worth it. Maybe that’s not what you want to hear but it’s true. I’m not sorry for that.

If that’s something you can’t forgive, I understand. You're still my friend. I'm glad you're okay.

Your friend (I hope),  
Eliot

* * *

June 2, 2019

Eliot,

Fuck you.

It would feel better to say it but I guess that isn’t an option, so: fuck you. Fuck you for making that choice and making it without me and thinking you know better and leaving me all of fucking this to deal with.

I didn’t really realize how angry I was, you know? And then I got your letter and I’m SO angry, El. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry and I don’t have anywhere to put it and it’s exhausting and I hate it. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to be anything. It was easier when I wasn’t anything, and now I’m furious and I can’t stop being furious no matter how much I want to.

I hate you, a little. And I’m so so relieved at the same time that you’re safe and alive and I don’t know what to do with all of it. I don’t know how to untangle it or deal with it or anything I’m just angry, constantly. Maybe it’s a good thing you’re gone. I don’t know if I could see you right now. I miss you and I don’t want to miss you and I do anyways. It fucking sucks.

So maybe it’s good that you’re so far away. Writing is better, at least. Easier to put everything down on paper and send it away and not have to see your face.

You were wrong. You know that, right? You were wrong. I understand why you did it but that doesn’t make it any less wrong. You shouldn’t have made a choice without me. Not that choice.

And it’s not fair that you did it and went away for so long and now I have to be angry at you and afraid for you at the same time. I know that doesn’t matter and things aren’t fair and especially not our lives but fuck that. It isn’t fair. 

I didn’t think you could be this angry at someone and <strike>love them</strike> be so grateful at the same time but I guess you can. So fuck you. Please come back.

Your friend (still),  
Q

* * *

39th of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Quentin,

Pretty sure I deserved all of that and then some.

You’re right. I fucked up. I should have talked to you, I should have trusted you, I should have worked with you. I’m sorry. I’ll keep saying it as long as I need to. But I’m still glad you’re not trapped there. I’m glad you’re okay. <strike>I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t okay. When you were in the hospital and they thought–– I mean, we thought–– When it looked like you weren’t going to make it I was–– Quentin I don’t know what I would do if I lost you too after I’ve finally pulled my head out of my ass and–– Jesus christ why is this so fucking difficult.</strike>

If you don’t know what to do with it, give it to me. I’ll take it. I mean it. Whatever you need to give away, whatever you need help carrying, I’ll take it. If being here is the only thing I can do then I will do it to the best of my ability, whatever being here means for you right now. I know I broke your trust and I owe you far more than an open ear, but maybe we can start there. I’m not going to get on you for working through your feelings. I hear it’s healthy. <strike>Which is why I</strike> <strike>Which is why I’m trying to</strike> <strike>Which is why I should tell you</strike> <strike>Which is FUCK!!!!</strike>

Just let me know what I can do, okay? Let me know what I can do to try and fix this.

Your friend (for as long as you'll have me),  
Eliot

P.S. I hate to tack this on here, but we need some help, and I’m a little short of lines to Librarians, or books in general, actually. All part of the joy of squatting in a medieval forest, etc. If Alice, or New Penny, or anyone any way to hunt down a little information on horology, we’re looking for a copy of The Clockmaker’s Treatise. We think it might help us figure out what happened to Fen and Josh. It’s a fool’s hope, really, but what else do we have?

* * *

June 25, 2019

Dear Eliot,

Sorry for the delay. There were a few complications. Alice is kind of pissed but her hair will grow back so it’s fine, mostly.

We can’t send the book, but I’ve attached our notes. Hopefully they’ll make it through, at least. If you need anything else, let me know. Not like I have a whole lot else to do right now. Like, I’m sort of sitting in on some of the summer classes but it’s not–– I mean, I don’t know. Brakebills kind of fucked us all over, you know? And like, after everything I’m sort of ahead of the curve, for once. Fogg thinks I could do a thesis and graduate, which isn’t the most terrible thing. I’ve been thinking I might do it. Just to like. Be done, I guess? Maybe it would feel like closure. And then I could never come back here again, which wouldn’t be the worst thing, really.

I’ve had some time to think. Obviously. It’s been a couple of weeks. And I’m still angry, and I’m probably going to be angry for a while. Sorry. But you asked how to make things okay and the answer is I don’t know. Everything’s hard right now. I wish I did, I really do. I hate living in limbo. But I don’t know.

Talking is good. Or, writing I guess. It’s good to know you’re out there. Even if I can’t see you, it’s good to know you’re there. It’s nice to have someone to talk to, even though I’m angry. I’m mad at you and I miss you. You asshole. You’re not even here for me to be mad at in person.

You can be okay. I think that’s what you can do, to start. You can be okay and stay okay and come back, when you're ready. I don’t want to lose you again. I think there’s probably a lot of stuff we need to talk about. And please don’t stop writing. Sometimes I feel like these letters are the only thing keeping me sane. <strike>I miss you.</strike>

I hope you’re alright. Margo too. And that the, y’know, war effort is going well, I guess.

Our lives are so fucking weird.

Your friend (always),  
Q

* * *

63rd of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

Condolences to Alice’s hair. Please send pictures.

Margo thinks it’s very sweet of you to worry and wants me to tell you that she’s fine. Thriving, actually. Truth be told I think she’s been itching for a real knock down drag out fight ever since we avoided all-out war with Loria, and the whole squatting in a forest waging a guerilla war thing agrees with her. Therapeutic, I guess. Slightly more intensive than kickboxing, but both she and her axes are doing quite well. Alas that we are not all so ready to gut a man as dear Bambi. Still, I’d hate to be on the other side. 

Thanks for the research help. Yes, everything arrived, thought the magic may have scrambled the last page a bit. Not sure what Old High Germanic has to do with it, but you’ve mixed up your datative and your accusative. Easy mistake to make; I took the liberty of correcting it for you. 

… It’s been a slow week. We’re waiting for our spies to report back. (Doesn't that sound sexy? 'Our spies.' Like Russian agents infiltrating the American machine. Or whatever, I don't know, I skipped most of my history classes.)

Oh, want to hear something ironic? Of course you do. Here it is: After everything Fillorians United put us through, we’ve come to an understanding. That’s right. Us, the usurping Children of Earth, are working with the current iteration of FU Fighters to save Fillory from a Fillorian. Well we think he’s a Fillorian anyway. I hope he’s Fillorian. I can’t wait to say I told you so. If only Baylor were still around to rub it in his face.

He isn’t. Of course. Because he’d be three hundred years old. But I still––

It isn’t exactly the sort of thing you go around thinking about, is it? What it would be like if you woke up and everyone you knew was dead. Tick and Rafe and even that sadistic talking sloth with the remarkably good legal advice. Everyone who worked at the palace. Everyone we knew outside it. I keep thinking about Fray. I know she’s not my real daughter, but I liked her, Q. I thought… I don’t know. It might have been sort of nice, if she had been mine. I’ve always known I’d be a terrible father, but for her I tried. I really did. And she’s gone now too. Didn’t even get to say goodbye. I though, if something were going to happen, I’d be able to say goodbye at least.

I miss you. I miss everyone. Even Alice. Please do thank her for her help. And sorry about the hair. I’m sure she still looks terrifyingly competent as ever. You can pass that along too.

I won’t stop writing. It’s because I’m selfish, if I’m honest, which I’m trying to be these days. Honest, not selfish. The selfish I can’t help. I had a lot of time to think while I was serving as the Monster Express, and I’m trying to do things a little better, this time around. So, selfishly, I’m writing you. It’s shitty here Q, and hearing from you is one of the best parts of my life these days. Maybe that’s pathetic, that a letter every few weeks is what’s keeping me going, but there you go. It’s good to know you’re alright. That you’re doing better. It’s good to know all the mundane parts of your life, to think about how nice it will be when I’m there with you again, or when you’re here.

Besides, I’d be a terrible penpal if I stopped writing, and I simply couldn’t stand such accusations.

Your friend,  
Eliot

* * *

July 5, 2019

Dear Eliot,

The German thing is for a personal project. My thesis, actually. Maybe. I'm still working out the details. But thanks for the notes. Actually they helped a lot with this one thing I was stuck on, so really, thanks. But yeah, feel free to ignore that. 

You know what I keep thinking about, actually? That first time we went to Fillory. Or the first time we left, I mean, when you had to stay there. And you said, I don’t know, something about being left alone to grow old and die, because of the timeslip. And we left you anyway. I mean, I know we had to, to fight the Beast, but it was so… we keep doing things because we have to, you know? Like, who else is going to do it, if not us? And we don’t think about what it’ll cost us until we’re already paying it, I guess? Which is pretty fucked up, when you think about it. Sorry we left you. Sorry we’re not with you now. I know it’s like. Self care and other responsibilities and all that shit but. I’m still sorry, I guess. Especially about Fray. I didn’t know her at all, not really, but you weren’t a terrible father. A terrible father wouldn’t care. And maybe you can fool yourself, but you don’t fool me, Eliot Waugh. Some things are worth caring about, and I know you care.

Terrible fathers don’t decide to try. The choices we make are important.

I guess I’m talking about my mom a little too. She’s been coming to see me. I don’t think she really likes the magic stuff, or she doesn’t get it at least, but she keeps coming back, and we talk, sometimes. About her and dad. About her and Molly. About us. It’s kind of a mess, but I think it helps. Like writing you helps. I’m not as angry these days. Mostly I just miss you.

Stay safe.

Your friend,  
Q

P.S. Alice says thanks but she isn’t sending you a picture. I really did try. Sorry.

* * *

77th of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

While I am endlessly disappointed, I am unsurprised. Our Alice has always been a private one.

I’m writing in part to let you know that mail may be a little slow over the next few weeks. I think we’re on the cusp of something big, and Margo agrees with me. I can’t share the details, obviously, but I don’t want to worry you, so I thought you should know. If all goes well I’ll write you about it. If it doesn’t, I’ll tell you about it in person, probably with half an evil Fillorian army hot on our heels.

I meant it, Q. I’m not abandoning you again. Whatever it takes, we’ll figure it out in a way that doesn’t involve needless sacrifice. I think we’ve had more than enough of that.

Until then, wish us luck. Given our track record, we’ll probably need it.

Your friend,  
Eliot

* * *

July 15, 2019

Dear Eliot,

Good luck. Stay safe.

Q

* * *

July 21, 2019

Dear Eliot,

I know you can’t write right now, which is fine, but I need to talk to someone, and you’re about the only person around I feel like I can talk to, which is sort of ironic given that you’re not around, but. Well, you get it.

They let me go home today. Well. “Home.” They released me from the hospital ward. They offered to put me up in the Physical Kids Cottage while I finish my thesis––which, yeah, I’m doing, like I said with the whole German thing, though it’s kind of slow going and I don’t exactly know what I want to do with it yet––but I’m sick of Brakebills so I’m staying with Julia in Kady’s apartment instead. I don’t know if you saw it at all while I was <strike>comatose</strike> <strike>asleep</strike> recovering. It’s big, which is nice, I guess. I like the windows. <strike>I keep expecting to see the</strike>

They’re not really letting me be alone. I guess I wasn’t alone at Brakebills either, but they weren’t quite so obvious about it, with the students and professors coming and going and classes and stuff. I mean, I guess it’s a good thing. I don’t think I’m a danger to myself anymore, but sometimes it’s hard to remember how to be a person on my own. I mean, there’s always a nice sort of rhythm to things in a hospital. Kind of a pain, but you don’t alway realize how much it helps until you’re not there anymore and all the structure goes away. So. The company is probably good. It’s not all bad, anyway. Kady’s been nice to me, which is weird. Penny’s nice to me, which is way weirder. I thought maybe it would be cool if he didn’t, like, actively hate me, but I think I kind of prefer it the other way around. I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone or something. Maybe he’s been bodysnatched. 

Fuck. Sorry. That probably isn’t a good joke to make after everything. Sorry.

Good luck. Really. I hope whatever secret mission you’re on is going well. Stay safe.

Q

* * *

August 1, 2019

Dear Eliot,

I’m learning sign language!

See that exclamation point? It’s because I’m really excited. <strike>Maybe for the first time since</strike> Kady’s friend Harriet is teaching me. I used to know a little bit –– one of my therapists thought it would be good, when I was in a really bad spot in high school –– but it’s been a long time since I used any of it. She’s funny, Harriet. And definitely has better things to do with her time, but I appreciate her teaching me. It’s nice to not always have to use words, if that makes sense? And after some of the Poppers hand signs are a breeze.

There are even a few Poppers based around them. It’s like learning Latin to understand medical vocabulary or whatever; I can see how things fit together in whole new ways. It’s been really helpful for my thesis too. I’m doing it on –– did I ever tell you my discipline? Minor mendings. Repair of small objects, technically, but I think it has a larger application. Like, it’s cellular, right? Repair things on the smallest level and eventually you can repair a far larger object. It’s all orders of magnitude. And time, but everything’s relative, right? So there’s no reason it couldn’t work on big things –– really big things I mean, whole worlds maybe –– as long as you approach it the right way.

That’s the theory at least. I don’t know what the practical portion will be, but the bookwork is going to take months anyway so there’s no rush. And I don’t so much mind spending time in the Brakebills library. <strike>Better than the</strike>

Still thinking of you. Everyone is. Hope you’re alright.

Your friend,  
Q

* * *

102nd of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

If anyone’s allowed to make bodysnatcher jokes, it’s us. If we haven’t earned that, who has? And you made Bambi laugh, so really, don’t worry. We need it. Turns out Fillorian peasant armies have absolutely no sense of humor. Sticks in the mud, all of them. But I guess I could have told you that after meeting literally one of the FU Fighters. 

I didn’t know about your discipline, congratulations on finding out. A true Physical Kid after all. But I could have told you that you belonged with us in the cottage from day one. Best of luck with your thesis. Whatever you do, don’t take Henry Fogg’s advice. But I’m sure you know that one already.

I did see the apartment, yes. You should tell Kady she has good taste. Please specifically tell her that I said that. I expect her to be suitably grateful. And it has to be nice to be free of Brakebills, right? Not that it isn’t the pinnacle of modern magical medicine, but the food is atrocious. You can’t keep eating that shit, Q. It’s barely real food. Honestly it’s a crime against real food. If you’re in the city again you should make them take you somewhere nice. Tell you what, I’ll take you somewhere nice when I get back, so you better make them take you out before then and pick your favorite. Or a couple favorites. It's always good to have a working catalogue to choose from. 

But to get back to the apartment, it has a nice balcony, doesn’t it? I remember liking the balcony <strike>as much as I liked anything while you were</strike>. Think of me, if you’re ever out there. Think of me in general, of course, but I’ve always wanted someone to think after me off to war while standing out on a balcony, and since Fen isn’t around to stand in I hope you won’t mind. Maybe you could sprinkle it with some longing. Just a teeny bit of longing, maybe? Really it would do wonders for morale. Mine, mostly, but I'm sure Margo would appreciate it too.

I look forward to the day we’ll have the chance to sit out there once I free this magical land of another mad tyrant. At least this one has only five fingers on each hand. We’re pretty sure. Honestly, if it’s the Beast come back from the grave I’m giving up on the whole damn fantasy kingdom and you and me are going to spend a very long month on the Mediterranean coast. Fuck Fillory, etc.

Well. After saving my fantasy kingdom wife and Hoberman, I guess.

Good news, though: We’re very close to something that might be (I hate to jinx it) kind of good. Won’t that make a nice change of pace.

Your friend, and still alive,  
Eliot

* * *

August 22, 2019

Dear Eliot,

The Mediterranean sounds nice. Anywhere besides the apartment sounds nicer.

Sorry it took so long to write. It’s been bad lately. It’s worse here. I feel like I’m going backwards. I see him everywhere. Someone will walk through a room and it’s like the past three months never happened. But we don’t have anywhere else to go, so I’m making the best of what I can.

Sorry this is short. Words are hard. I’m really really glad you’re okay. Sometimes I spend hours rereading your letters for the reminder that you’re out there and alright, relatively. You’re still here at least. Or, there. You know what I mean. You always know what I mean. I really appreciate that, El. Thank you. Thank you for humoring me. Thank you for writing.

Stay safe. <strike>I love</strike>

Q

* * *

125th of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

I’m going to tell you a story now that I hope will help. Ready? Okay.

When I was <strike>gone</strike> <strike>away</strike> <strike>how are we even supposed to talk about this if I can’t fucking say it</strike> being possessed by our not-so-friendly neighborhood pseudogod, I was in the Physical Kids Cottage. In my head, I mean. That’s where it kept me, where I could replay my best memories over and over again and keep out of the way. I called it my Happy Place. It was the only pace I could be without the other things in its head attacking me, and even then I was stuck there knowing things were going on without me, that my body was doing things without me. Obviously time didn’t pass like it does but I was there for… I don’t know how long. A long time.

When they let me out of the hospital, they took me to the cottage. I mean, it makes sense, right? I didn’t even consider it. But as soon as I stepped inside I was back in my own head. I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t even the same –– I mean, no memory is ever going to live up to the real thing –– but it didn’t matter. I panicked. I couldn’t go in. Eventually they let me stay in the hospital ward and that was the end of it. Until Lipson kicked me out, anyway, and now here I am. Never thought I’d be so grateful to camp out in the woods.

It’s funny. I haven’t told anyone that, not even Margo.

I’m trying to say: I get it. I understand not wanting to be there, how bad it can be. I wish I had something better than “you’re not alone” but you’re not alone, Q. I mean it. And Wicker’s smart; I bet the two of your could put your heads together and figure something out. That’s my official, kingly stance. I hope it helps some.

Or you could come camping in the woods with us. We’d love to have you.

Whatever you need. Like I said, I’m here however <strike>you’ll let me</strike> I can be. My tent flap is always open.

Your friend,  
Eliot

* * *

September 13, 2019

Dear Eliot,

So, turns out telling people about the problems you’re having means they can help solve them. Yeah, I know, don’t look at me like that. I’m just saying, feels like some advice you could take yourself.

Julia and I are apartment hunting. Mostly Julia is apartment hunting, actually, but she keeps dragging me along because getting out of the house is good for me. I mean, it is, but the way she says it is just like she used to when we were fifteen and shitty teenagers about it. The more things change, you know? It’s hardly the most thrilling thing, but it’s nicer than sweating out on the balcony, which I guess is what I’ve been doing for the past two months.

There’s this one place out in Brooklyn, not too far from the park. It’s a little cramped, but it’s got these big windows and a little park on the corner and I… I think I like it. Julia says it has personality and I can kind of see what she means. It’s funny, I hated living in Brooklyn as a kid and now I almost want to go back. It might be nice to start fresh. Not a new book, just a new chapter. I think… I think maybe I want to try just being me, for a little while. Fewer crises. I want to finish my thesis, graduate. Easy stuff, sort of.

It’s weird to want stuff that’s not, I don’t know, big. Life-or-death, whole world depends on it sort of stakes. I mean, I wanted Fillory so badly, right? I wanted it to be real more than anything, but then it was… Well, you know. A fucking disappointment. I know you love it, but it was never going to be the thing that fixed me, no more than Brakebills or magic was going to be The Thing That Fixed Me cause it can’t be Fixed. And I’ve known that, of course, that it’s not about being Fixed it’s about working however I best can, and that’s okay. I mean, even if it isn’t, I’ve got to find a way to be okay with that, and I think I am, maybe, or I could here in Brooklyn, doing Normal People Things for a little bit. It saved my life, Fillory, it did, but not the way I wanted it to. You’ve always made the best of the reality of Fillory. High king in your blood, and all that. It makes sense. But me, I needed it to be the story. And it wasn’t.

Which I guess is my way of saying I don’t know when I’ll be back. I will, I promise, but I just want to breathe for a little while, El. Like, maybe I’ve earned that by now, y’know?

Tell Margo hi. Julia sends her love. I hope you find Fen and Josh soon. I hope you can come back soon. Even if it’s just to visit, it would be nice to see you again.

Your friend,  
Q

* * *

139th of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Quentin,

I always liked fall in New York. It’s so much nicer in the city. I’d kill for a pumpkin spice latte. I’m not kidding. Do not make that face at me you have absolutely no taste to speak of and I refuse to be shamed.

It’s been summer here for months. Clearly, you’ve seen the dates (which, by the way, Fillorian dating systems are so arbitrary and unhelpful. What’s with that? Something else we’ll have to standardize when we get our thrones back, I suppose.) We’re not sure if it’s Dark King guy playing with the weather or not. Nothing ever wants to be what it’s supposed to be; I wouldn't put it past the seasons to decide they’ve had enough too. I’d give anything for some rain, though. We need it. The people need it and the fields need it. It’s like we’re all holding our breaths and fighting a war at the same time, and nothing is going anywhere.

It is, of course, abhorrent that you would willingly elect to settle in Brooklyn, but I suppose for you I would sully my good reputation. Tell me it’s one of the nice, classy neighborhoods. It’s all about stoop culture, as I understand it. You’ll have to explain it to me someday. I’ve always hated meeting the neighbors. I mean, you saw what happened with Loria.

I’m happy for you, Q. And I’m proud too. I think it’s good that you’ve found something to pursue, and there’s no shame in taking the time to care for yourself. I wish I were there to help. You deserve to be cared for. 

Your friend,  
Eliot

P.S. Please send pictures when the leaves change. If I’m to suffer I want to at least suffer like the masochist I am with glossy colored photographs of everything I’m missing, thanks.

* * *

September 27, 2019

Dear El,

Photos attached, I think. I included a couple of our trip to the beach earlier this month, when it was still warm enough. Yes, Alice’s new haircut included. If it helps, there’s record of a four-hundred day summer back around the time the Chatwins arrived in Fillory, so maybe it’s not entirely abnormal. Sucks, though. I hope it breaks soon.

We signed for the apartment. It’s possible we may have tweaked a few of the application questions, but Julia keeps asking what the point of being a magician is if you can’t have something good every once in a while and I’m not going to argue with her about lease terms. We’ve already started putting up wards –– Jules is really good at them. Like, better than anyone I know. Alice thinks maybe it’s the residual goddess stuff. Honestly I think she’s just that good, but I may be a little bit biased. I mean, she is my best friend.

We don’t have a balcony, unfortunately, but we do have roof access via the fire escape. Another one of those little rules we’re sort of breaking, but it’s fine as long as we stay on our side of the building. I’m sitting out here right now. It’s a little warm, still, but you can tell that autumn is just around the corner. All the kids are back at school, and all the coffee shops have their fall blends on sale, and it’s so incredibly mundane, El. I think I like it. I think maybe I could love it.

I really like the apartment, anyway. It’s small, but comfortable. It's got white walls and these accents in some kind of light wood and it's been renovated recently enough that there’s central heating and cooling, which is a definite plus. I think you’d like it. It’s sort of classy, or we could make it classy anyway. Classy and cozy. I'd like that. And the roof is good too. You can see the city skyline through the gap in the buildings across the street, and the park is this big green blot to the south, and it’s really nice. The sort of nice you don’t realize until you’re there, y’know, like a little pocket of something good tucked away in your everyday life, like turning the corner and walking into a magical world. I mean, I guess a rooftop in Brooklyn isn’t exactly a magical world, but it feels like it could be, if you look at it right. It’s enough magical world for me, anyway, for right now. We’ve dragged a couple chairs up here –– that's the the first thing we did, actually, we don’t even have beds yet but we came up here with chairs and a couple of beers and it was like. I don’t know. It was like I could see the rest of my life, El. Or most of it, anyway. There are a few pieces missing. <strike>You’re missing.</strike> But I’ll get there, right? I have time. 

I think maybe we might add a firepit. To the roof, I mean. Nothing serious, but it’ll be nice when it starts to get cold.

There’s a park right on the corner too, one of those small ones where a building won’t quite fit so someone’s stuck some trees and a bench. There’s a kid playing there right now, a little girl. She’s got a red ball, and she keeps bouncing it against the wall and running after it. It’s such a mindless thing, you know, tossing a ball, and she’s all in. Like, this is the only thing in her whole world. Can you imagine that? Just you and a ball and a park? Not having to worry about everything else? I don’t need to tell you, I guess. Not sure I’m even allowed to, while I’m here trying to put myself back together and you’re out there being some Robin Hood rebellion leader. 

Oh my god, Eliot. Is it like Robin Hood? Please tell me you’ve got one of those tunics like in the movies. And a bow. You know what, I don’t even care, I’m imagining it now. It’s a good look for you. <strike>Most looks are good looks fo</strike>

We’re going to try expanding the living room too. Make it somewhere we can host people, at least a little bit. Nothing too big. It’s ours, though. That feels good. Can’t wait for you to see it. <strike>Jesus that’s cheesy.</strike> I’m supposed to ask if you or Margo know any of the spells from the Cottage. Alice has a bunch from her dad’s books but they’re like, really esoteric. I figured if anyone knows the straightforward version it would be you two.

Wish you were here,  
Q

* * *

152nd of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

Thanks for the pictures. I don’t exactly have a wallet, but trust me, I’ll be showing them off to our dear peasant army like the proud father I am. You may all call me Daddy. 

<strike>Are you and Alice back</strike> <strike>Are you dating</strike> You and Alice look particularly cute. How is it going this time? Without someone who sleeps with other people’s boyfriends around, I mean.

As for Fillory, things are getting a little weird, even by Fillory standards. Nothing’s going wrong, we think. Actually, it may have finally gone right.

Won’t that be a first.

But we’re about to do something I can’t tell you about just in case something happens to this message, so don’t worry. I’ll write you as soon as we’re free and clear. Shouldn’t be long at all, and then I’ll be able to tell you everything we’ve been up to all goddamn summer.

Not sure if it’s worth praying to the gods we personally killed but it can’t hurt to try, right? 

Eliot

P.S. If I had known LARPing was such a big turn on for you I’d have tried years ago. Yes, it’s just like Robin Hood. Also, Margo is laughing at you.

* * *

October 2, 2019

Eliot,

First, I should probably clarify: Alice and I aren’t seeing each other. I wasn’t in a place to see anyone for months––even before everything, I was pretty fucked up really wasn’t in a good spot, and when we could talk about it again we did. It kind of sucked, actually, but I think we’re better for it. But yeah, no dating for Quentin right now. Probably better that way, at least for a bit. <strike>And the only person I want to date is literally on a different planet so</strike>

Secondly, the fact that you know what LARPing is is more of a mark against you than against me I’m pretty sure.

Third–– Good luck. We just got a wine rack and I’d hate to deprive you of the chance to sample our selection. <strike>And I’d hate to lose you after</strike> <strike>hate to lose my penpal after</strike> <strike>just come home, okay?</strike>

Q

P.S. No one is going to call you Daddy except you. I’m not sorry.

* * *

170th of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Dear Q,

So, there’s good news and there’s bad news.

The good news is, we’re all alive, and we have solid information on our dear missing companions, who are also alive. Go us.

The bad news is, they’re in this prison that’s warded up the ass –– Margo’s words, not mine –– and I don’t know how we’re going to get them out. But one thing at a time, right? We’ll figure it out. We always do.

As promised, what we’ve been up to the past few months. There was, of course, the period of figuring out what the everloving fuck is going on in our country. We’ve been squatting in the Queenswood for… four months? Five? A really fucking long time. We’ve had a few close calls, fleeing in the middle of the night, that sort of thing. Margo’s been a diplomatic wonder woman. Seriously, the native Fillorians adore her. She’s talked almost all the beasts and Beasts onto our side. And the actual peasants too. They’ve been shockingly welcoming. I guess anyone’s better than the guy in charge right now. And we do have a little more idea what we’re doing now than we did when we first stumbled into this weird world with our dicks in our hands.

So that’s been all well and good, your general guerilla warfare thing, cutting supply lines, stealing contraband, very Hamilton. I like to think Lin would be impressed. But three weeks ago one of the FU Fighters came back with information on Fen and Josh. Obviously Bambi and I went to check it out ourselves and ended up rescuing a number of temporally displaced persons. No one we know, but they’re from all across this Dark King’s reign. Time-wise, I mean. There were even people there who recognized us. No one we know, but still, kind of impressive. Nice to know we left and impression. And with the new intel we think… I mean, can’t say for certain, but it’s possible that if we beat him all this will just. Unwind.

Because we’re close, Q, and things are getting really strange here.

So that’s what we’ve been up to. We didn’t find Fen and Josh in that dungeon –– do not make a Mario reference at me right now Margo already did it –– but we’ve figured out where they are, so. Things are looking up, a little.

Looking at it rationally it’s only a new set of problems to solve, but it feels like we’re getting somewhere. And it rained yesterday. Only for a few minutes, and it was disgustingly hot and humid the entire time, but that has to be a good sign, right? I stood outside in it –– in a white shirt, of course, for the good of the troops –– and it was… shockingly nice. I mean, standing out in the rain is good for a dramatic gesture every now and then but really, it was nice to feel the weather finally break. <strike>It reminded me of the mo–– No we’re not talking about that.</strike>

Things are nowhere near settled here, of course, but for a moment it wasn’t all so awful. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I’d like to think so. Margo looks at me like I’m mad, but I thought you might get it. Like that roof of yours–– good things hidden in nonsensical, normal places, if you look. <strike>God I sound like I’m going insane. Well maybe I am. You’d still like me if I went insane, right Q? Jesus.</strike>

Buy a nice bottle of red for me. We’ll open it when I’m back.

Your friend,  
Eliot

P.S. I’m sorry for asking about Alice. It was thoughtless of me, and it <strike>doesn’t</strike> <strike>shouldn’t</strike> doesn’t matter anyway. <strike>I was just afraid</strike> <strike>just jealous</strike> <strike> I want it to be me</strike> <strike>I’m afraid you’ll move on while I’m here and I’ll have missed my chance again I need to tell you I was wrong I need to tell you this in person fuck I want to come home and see you and tell you why is this so fucking hard.</strike> As long as you’re okay, that’s what counts.

* * *

October 17, 2019

Dear El,

I’m glad to hear things went off smoothly. I’d hate for a Daddy joke to be the way we ended things. <strike>I hate for anything to be the way we ended things. I tried that before, El, it wasn’t–– I didn’t–– Fuck. This so hard to talk about.</strike>

Thank God about Fen and Josh too. Not the prison part, but the rest. I mean, it’s not your first rodeo, anyway. Prison break. Heist?

Sorry. I keep joking about all this stuff. If I don’t I think I might lose my mind.

We’re pretty well into autumn now. You know, I never really liked it, the damp and the wet and winter in general. Things are always worse in winter, for me personally I mean. My brain is always a little more fucked up. Seasonal affective disorder, and all that. Like things weren’t awful enough already.

But I went out out to the library with Julia yesterday –– the normal library, not the slightly-less-fascist-than-usual one –– and kept thinking about, y’know, what would you like about it? What makes it nice, or comforting, or whatever. And it… helped, I guess. It’s nothing like having you here, but it was sort of like that, for a little while. Like I could pretend. Thanks for that, you know? It was a nice thing to pretend.

Anyway. Point is. I printed off a few more pictures for you. Not sure they’re any good, but they’re there if you want. Maybe they’ll help.

Now get out there and rescue our friends.

Stay safe,  
Q

* * *

Quentin,

Rescued F+J, others. Lost good people. War’s a fucking bitch. Details to follow.

– Eliot

* * *

October 29, 2019

Eliot,

Thank God. Not about losing people, I mean about finding them. Are they okay? Are you? Is Margo? We’re all waiting for details. It’s been raining all week and there’s nothing to do and nowhere to go. Everything’s damp and grey and cold. We’re waiting. 

Please let us know you’re alright.

Q

* * *

November 6, 2019

Dear Eliot,

It’s been a week. What’s going on? Are you guys alright?

Q

* * *

November 18, 2019

Eliot,

<strike>It’s been</strike>

<strike>Are you</strike>

<strike>I hate this fucking</strike>

Please write.

Q

* * *

who the fuck knows

Dear little nerd Q,

Yeah, yeah, sorry for the delay. We’ve been on the move. I’m writing this one because Eliot broke his arm pretty fucking spectacularly. Seriously there was bone everywhere. You should have seen it it was gross.

But listen, Q, don’t worry about him, he’ll be fine in a couple of days. The centaurs really know their shit. I mean, obviously you know that but seeing them in action is. Damn.

Pretty good healers too.

Knowing you you’re freaking out about why the fuck it took us so goddamn long to settle down again and why Eliot’s been such a cock about writing you back. Totally fair, I’d be freaking out too. It’s only sort of his fault. We’ve been on the move –– can’t say where of course, this is an ongoing covert op and I’m not compromising the mission, not even for you Coldwater –– and things were a little shaky for a while in there but we’re settled now. Fen and Josh both say hi. Yes, they’re fine. We’re all fine, except for Eliot’s future battle scars, which I’m sure you’ll find very sexy. We lost some FU Fighters and one of the griffins, and things were… objectively not great. You don’t want the details. Trust me.

But yes, we’re fine, quit worrying. Well, I don’t know if you can quit worrying, but you can worry a little less. I’m taking good care of our El. I promise. Nothing’s getting through me. Anyone who tries is gonna get a facefull of Sorrow. I’m not letting either of you down again, Q.

If things keep going this good we’ll see you by Christmas. Better start thinking about presents.

xo

Margo

* * *

201st of Summer, 303 Dark Age

Hey Quentin,

I’ve been thinking. Not much else to do right now––the centaurs aren’t a particularly talkative lot. I hope you got Margo’s letter. Whatever she said, I’m sure it’s not nearly that bad. We’re fine, I promise. I’m sorry for scaring you. I’m okay. And I can write again, so. Here I am.

But I’ve been thinking. Why Fillory? Why us? Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not complaining about the whole king thing––royalty definitely has its perks and privileges when you’re not roughing it in the bush with your nascent peasant army drawing up plans to storm the castle, only slightly metaphorically speaking.

But sometimes I wonder, you know? What’s the point of trying so hard to fix something determined to stay broken? We killed the Beast, cleared the Wellspring, attempted to broker peace with Loria, started introducing democracy, killed the frankly insane gods running this place, and all for what? To get stuck three hundred years in the future fighting some dick who who won’t even show his face? The people are starving and the land is ravaged and the country is at a tipping point and we’re all one bad night away from a complete breakdown and what’s the point, Q? What’s the point when I could come home? I could sleep on a real mattress again. I could see you.

I said, back when we first started writing, that Bambi and I were the only people who could help, but what if that isn’t true. What if everything’s bad because we keep making it worse? You know, like we’re what’s out of balance, we’re what’s causing things to go wrong. I know Ember and Umber designed this world to be ruled by Children of Earth, but they’re gone. What right do we have to be here at all?

And how am I supposed to give it up? I like being king. Of course I like being king, it's the perfect job for me. But it’s not just that. King or not I love this world. I love this terrible, fucked up, ironic, awful little world. It’s smelly and backwards and stupid and it saved my life. Fillory saved my life. The first time we came here I was so sure I was going to die. I was looking for it, really. Did you know that? I guess it must have been obvious, how bad I was doing, how far I had spiraled. And I thought this would be it, and it was it, but not the way I hoped. It was better. I mean, it was terrible and I resented it so fucking much but it worked, too. Other people needed me. I had to step up and somehow I did.

I owe Margo more than I’ll ever be able to say for putting up with me while I figured it out. 

You know what else I keep thinking about? Our time here. Fifty years. Fifty years. I don’t think I understand how long that is, even now. I know we don’t talk about it, and I know that’s because I shut it all down, and I want to say I’m sorry about that. I’m trying this thing, now, where I’m more honest, and if I’m going to be honest then I have to tell you that I’m sorry because it was good, and I was afraid of how good it was. That’s hard to write. Probably going to be harder to say out loud. I was afraid. I was afraid so I lied to you. I want to make up an excuse, say I didn’t know better or that I didn’t think it mattered that much but I knew, and I did it anyway. I’m sorry for that, and for making you doubt yourself. I’ve done a lot of fucked up, terrible things in my life, but that’s the worst. You were right, Q. We did work. I mean, the beauty of all life. Proof of fucking concept.

And I know that was us, and I know if we tried –– really, if we try, if we make that choice –– we could be good here again, or Earth, or anywhere you are, because we’re good, Q, we’re really good. But it was Fillory too, a little. Fillory that gave us the chance. And if Fillory can be that, then don’t I have to try? Even if it could make everything worse, don’t we have to try?

It’s the possibility of a chance, right? Like maybe we could get it right. Maybe we can get Fillory right.

This is the sort of thing I should tell you in person. I will tell you in person. But first I’ve got to finish up here. Now that Fen and Josh are safe, and we’re healed up, mostly, it’s time to end things, even though it’s bigger than us, and dangerous. I’m not going to turn away. This awful, terrible, stupid kingdom saved my life when I needed it, and this is my chance to return the favor. I’m not going to stop fighting. If I’m being honest I don’t think I could. Pretty sure I learned that one from you. 

And it feels like jinxing it but Q, I almost lost you without telling you once before and I can’t do that again. So you should know that I love you, and I’m sorry, and I’d choose you in this or any lifetime, and if it’s something you want then yes, I want to try too. And when I get back –– when, I swear it, whatever it takes –– I’m going to tell you all of this in person, like I should have the first time.

I miss you, Q. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, but I wish you were here.

I’ll see you at Christmas.

Love,  
Eliot

* * *

December 1, 2019

Dear Eliot,

I keep rewriting this and I’m still not sure I’ve got it right so just–– bear with me here.

I spent a really long time fighting for you and only you. Blinders, like I said; I couldn’t see the rest of the world. And it wasn’t because I thought I had a chance with you or you might change your mind, or any of that. I thought, even if fifty years didn’t count to you, even if I wasn’t your choice, you were still mine. And it’s all kinds of fucked up, what you did, but I’m not angry. I mean, I’ve been angry about a lot of other stuff but never that. Even if you broke my heart. I know that sounds overdramatic and stupid, but it’s true, and if we’re saying true things then I guess that’s my truth to share. But I was never angry. You’re my friend, Eliot. Even in the middle of everything else you’re one of my best friends, and you know what’s kind of screwed up? I’d do it again too. I’d spend all that time with the monster, do everything he told me to, help him however he needed, if it meant getting you back.

I’m not sure if that’s better than the anger, but it doesn’t feel as awful. More like peace. Or like I’m making my peace with it, at least. I don’t know if those are the same things. Feelings are still a little wiggly some days. I’m working on that.

It would be selfish of me to ask you to come back now, so I won’t. But I did lose you, El. I lost you for months and I nearly killed myself to get you back, and I would have. If Penny had listened to me I would have.

Saying it now sounds like I’m trying to guilt you into something. I’m not. I’m not where I was then. I’m not that person. I mean, I am, but every day I get a little further away. I’m climbing up a hill. It’s a big hill, and I don’t always climb as much as I want and some days I feel like I’m slipping right back down to the bottom but I can see further, now. Maybe one day I’ll make it to the top. Maybe not. I’m making my peace with that too. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I think what I’m trying to say is, it’s okay. I mean, it’s terrible, and twisted, and I hate that you’re so far away and throwing yourself headfirst into a fight when I can’t do anything at all to help. But it’s okay that you care. There are worse things to fight for than the causes and people and worlds we care about, Eliot. You’re a good king, as well as a spectacular one. Fillory lucky to have you, no matter where you come from. Forget Ember and Umber, forget if you’re allowed or not. You’re making a choice and you’re trying and that counts more than anything, I think. I think it has to. I don’t know what else we have. So go save your kingdom.

Just–– Come back when you’re done. 

I’ll see you at Christmas.

Love,  
Quentin

* * *

1st of Autumn, Year 1 Age TBD  
(really though we have to do something about Fillorian dating systems)

Q,

Well. It’s done.

We’re back where we started, temporally. Killing the Dark King undid a lot of time magic, and the rest of the world doesn’t even know. We do, of course, but it may be better this way. It’s good to see some familiar faces. I was even happy to see Tick. Can you believe it? Tick. There are a few of our people displaced backwards in the chaos of the battle, and we’re trying to figure out how to send them forwards again, if that’s possible. Always a new problem to solve. Oh, and Margo’s still technically banished but she and Fen and Josh are working on loopholes. Growing up with lawyers for parents was good for something at least.

I’m leaving them to sort out the intricacies of ruling. Margo’s promised me the high-queen-ship, which I feel I should accept on principle, but there’s something I have to do first.

We’re returning via the Neitherlands. It’ll take some time, but if our math is right, we’ll be back on Earth on Christmas Eve. If you’re free, I’d like to see you. What do you say to 2pm, Central Park, at the skating rink? It’s probably time we talk face to face.

If not, that’s okay too. We have all the time in the world.

Yours,  
Eliot

* * *

December 16, 2019

Dear El,

The park sounds good. I’ll see you next week.

Yours,  
Q

* * *

24 Dec. 2019

Dear Quentin,

I know I’m going to see you soon, so this hardly matters, but I’ve gotten use to writing you in my spare time, which I seem to have an awful lot of right this moment. I hope you won’t mind.

It’s nice to be back in the city. It smells terrible, of course, and I miss the opium in the air and the humbled masses kneeling at my feet, etc., but there’s something about New York that Fillory just can’t measure up to. You can have all the talking animals you want; there’s nothing like being flipped off by a man driving a yellow cab. It feels like coming home.

I’m scared, Q. That’s really why I’m writing. I can say that, right? I hope so. Honesty, and all that. And I’m going to tell you everything anyway, so it’s not like this is something secret. So I’m scared, but I’m here, because I’m learning bravery from you. I don’t know how you do it, to be frank. Something else I’ll have to ask you when I see you.

Which–– Oh. I see you.

I don’t really know how I’m going to say any of this to your face. I’m pretty sure the words are all going to disappear as soon as you look at me. But I’m trying. I’m choosing.

And I just bested the evil usurper of my small fantasy kingdom so I think I can probably manage talking to the love of my life.

Wish us luck, Q. I think we might need it.

I love you.

El

* * *

_ In the winter-brown park in the winter-grey city, a man rises from a bench, tucks a trifolded scrap of paper into the inside pocket of his jacket before winding his way through the Christmas crowd. It’s loud in the park today, and the air is crisp with cold. They sky looms heavy and flat as slate above the city. _

_ There’s another man standing at the railing overlooking a busy skating rink, coat collar tucked up and hair pulled back, except for a few loose strands tugged loose by the winter wind. He’s looking at the crowd. And then he’s looking at Eliot pick his way between tourists and locals alike, a tall, narrow smear against the backdrop of the park. _

_ Quentin watches Eliot approach. He’s uncertain, and then the uncertainty splinters into a broad and brilliant smile. His knuckles are tight around the cold metal of the railing. _

_ They meet there, overlooking the overcrowded rink. The air smells like winter-wet earth and roasting chestnuts and human lives and the faint promise of snow. Eliot says something to Quentin, head tipped down to say it into one ear. He talks for a long time. Quentin’s face is inscrutable for a long time. Then Eliot stops his whispering to look at him, and Quentin steps in to kiss him. _

_ For a moment the crowd eddies around them, tourists and children and foolhardy locals eager to squeeze in a last hurrah before the holiday arrives in the morning all twisting and swirling together like dead leaves through the wind. _

_ When the crowd clears, they’re gone. _

_The sky opens, and the first flakes of snow begin to fall. _

**Author's Note:**

> you can also find me on [tumblr](http://impossibletruths.tumblr.com)


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